Mass Effect: Coalition
by Neo-Lifethane
Summary: Commander Shepard, having defeated the enigmatic Collectors, now contends with an insidious doppelganger, a Council Spectre, and a mystery left by an old friend as he prepares for the coming Reaper invasion.  Mass Effect is owned by BioWare  and not me .
1. PROLOGUE:  ORIGINS

Version 1.11 Notes: Made minor changes to alleviate overused identifier noun phrase variations. Acting on tip from reader review, removed all instances of the moniker "Donnie" for Shepard, except where specifically spoken by Marcus Royal. Added mentions of Royal's southern accent, which were intended to be present in first iteration but were forgotten in the rush of caffeine that served as fuel for the chapter.

**PROLOGUE - ORIGINS**

Mindoir – 2170 CE

Smoke, heat, the stink of bodies, and the cries of victims not yet taken overwhelmed Ensign Marcus Royal as he darted from cover to cover, taking precautions against an enemy he had yet to see but which could be lurking around the very next corner. He was on his own, his recon team having fanned out to cover more ground when no large grouping of opponents was detected. To make matters worse, this was the first time he'd ever been alone in a hot zone, and he was pretty sure his beaten hand-me-down of a sniper rifle had a fifty-fifty chance of blowing its ammunition block into his face if he pulled the trigger. If the batarians caught him unawares, the young special forces officer would have stood a significantly lesser chance of making it back alive. He kept a firm grip on his Hahne-Kedar pistol as he vaulted over a crate and dashed quietly over to the far corner of the nearby prefab housing unit.

Peeking around the edge cautiously and doing a quick visual scan, he finally caught sight of a target. The ugly, four-eyed humanoid matched the descriptions of the batarian people he'd had in his childhood schooling, and the lightly armored, non-military issue hardsuit and turian-manufactured assault rifle marked him as a mercenary. He was standing guard near an armored ground vehicle and a stack of empty cages. Royal didn't see any sign of other slavers or their intended human captives, but that didn't necessarily guarantee that the batarian was alone. More could have been inside the truck he was guarding, or else hiding in the prefab structure that the cages leaned against.

Royal brought up his omni-tool and lightly keyed the haptic interface, sending a silent message to the other members of his squad that he'd made contact, then weighed his options. He didn't like the idea of popping out of his cover to take a shot with his pistol. If the batarian's suit was equipped with even the most basic of kinetic barrier technology, his shots would never find their mark—at least not before the batarian's assault rifle cut him down, or the other slavers popped out of hiding. Lining up a shot with the sniper rifle was probably a better plan, but he didn't trust the weapon and any allies the batarian had would immediately come barreling in his direction. Either way, firing presented too much of a risk without the rest of his squad to back him up—and, judging by the blips on his omni-tool that represented his teammates, he would be waiting at least three minutes before any of them showed up.

Waiting was not Royal's strong suit, but he had other options. Wiping some sweat from his broad, pale forehead and raking his fingers through his dark hair, he keyed a new command into his omni-tool. The batarians' truck was alien, but it was common enough that the human Systems Alliance had schematics. The hacking program built into his tool happened to work for this model's on-board computer.

The revving of the vehicle's engine startled the lone batarian, but that wasn't enough of a warning. Less than two seconds later, he was flattened beneath its three left-side tires and the cages had been scattered. An instant later, the driver popped out of the side door, leaping to the ground to check on him. The driver wasn't wearing any protective gear, and had not taken time to send off a radio message. No other batarians emerged from the prefab buildings to see what had happened.

In one quick, fluid motion, Royal whipped around the corner and sank two rounds between the driver's upper set of eyes. Though he'd made less noise than the truck, he took a look around to see if anyone else had bothered to respond. Thankfully, he remained alone for the moment. Again raising his omni-tool, he sent the all-clear message to his squad, telling them to ignore his earlier signal and continue searching other areas.

A moment later, after he grabbed a quick drink from his canteen, Royal was ready to move on when he heard an alien voice shouting something from a couple of buildings away. Ducking quickly back behind the cover of the previous building, he watched and listened, thinking for a minute that he'd been discovered. When no retaliatory force emerged, he cautiously stepped out again and advanced in the direction of the noise.

He passed one prefab building, then the next, without seeing anybody. The voices, however, were getting louder, so he persisted. Now he could hear human voices mixed in with the batarians. They were unintelligible, but it was clear from their tones of voice that the humans were pleading for their lives while their captors mockingly refused, toying with them. As he got closer still, he heard a cry of rage, then a gunshot.

Peering around the corner of a third unit, he found himself perhaps thirty yards away from three batarians surrounding a small family. The father had just been killed—his blood was still pouring out onto the grass while his wife and child watched. The boy, who Royal guessed to be fifteen or sixteen years of age, with dark hair like his own and a lean, wiry build, stood silently in shock with his deep blue eyes staring wide in disbelief. The red-haired wife simply bawled in a combination of grief and terror.

"The female, too," Royal heard the largest one say. "She's going to make my head explode with that wailing. Too frail to be useful, anyway."

A second later, another batarian had placed his pistol to the mother's temple and pulled the trigger, splattering her brains over her already-traumatized son. Royal felt himself swell with anger, but he restrained himself from charging after them. Even if he fired now, he probably couldn't save the boy. But he could try, and at least ensure that the alien bastards paid the price. Signaling his team yet again, he pulled his second-rate sniper rifle from his back, relieved to see that it at least uncollapsed normally. Stealthily slipping out from behind the building and taking shelter behind a nearby crate, he leaned the barrel on the container's lid and lined up a shot on the lead batarian.

Before he could fire, however, one of the henchmen leaned down to slap cuffs on the stricken boy, which lead the boy to a feat that Royal would remember forever. Letting out a sudden roar of bereaved rage, he lashed out with his fist, and sent the batarian flying backward with a biotic throw, straight into his boss. Both aliens tumbled over each other and crashed into the opposite building, then lay—whether they were stunned or dead, Royal couldn't tell, but they weren't getting up.

Both Royal and the remaining batarian froze where they were, unbelieving. Biotics—the ability of uncommon individuals to manipulate the universe around them by using element zero nodules throughout their nervous systems to create mass effect fields—was heard of in humans, but exceptionally rare. There certainly hadn't been reports of any noteworthy biotics on the colony of Mindoir. Yet here was a boy who clearly showed high-level ability. It had caught them all by surprise.

But this wouldn't save him forever. It seemed the boy had used up all his power already, for he did not duplicate his impressive feat. He stood there, drained and ragged, while the third batarian finally found his nerves and raised his pistol, now intent on eliminating the last remaining family member rather than enslaving such a dangerous specimen.

That was when Royal at last pulled the trigger. The batarian's head exploded, his body thudding wetly to the ground and joining that of his murdered victims. Immediately afterward, Royal sprinted out towards the bloody scene and put a pistol shot in the head of each of the other batarians to ensure that they also were dead.

Safe for the moment, Royal turned his attention to the boy. He was shaken, bruised, and holding himself gingerly on a sprained left ankle, but he looked like he would be okay. His eyes bored into the dead batarian at his feet, lips pulled back in an angry snarl, breathing shakily, erratically. Royal saw more than anger there. He saw defiance, an indomitable will that refused to be broken. His family lay dead around him, but he did not shatter with grief or fear in the face of his own death by the same hands. Suddenly Royal understood what had driven the uncommonly powerful biotic attack.

"You all right, son?" He asked the question in his best comforting voice; he was often told that his light southeast-American drawl and stubble-ridden visage had a warm and homely quality to it, and he was counting on it to help calm the child enough to get him to cooperate.

That, and persuade him not to toss him into the wall along with the batarians.

"They're dead," the boy replied, his voice a haggard whisper. "You killed them. I'm still alive." He seemed to be convincing himself of the facts, reaffirming reality so as not to lose his grip on it. Royal could understand that. He'd seen his fellow soldiers do it more than once. Even he had done it when he first saw a team member die.

"That's right," he said, patting his young charge even while looking around for possible enemy reinforcements. "You're alive. I know you can't be feeling good right now, with your family... gone. But you can still make it out of here. Maybe you can even get back at these bastards one day."

"N-no, I can't," the boy argued solemnly. He was still staring intently at the batarian corpses. "You already k-killed them."

Royal bit his lip. The kid had a point, from a narrow point of view. He knew he should probably just carry the kid out of here, but he'd rather have the boy cooperate, possibly even lend his biotics to help them both get back safely.

"That's true," he conceded. "But one day you could help stop this from happening to someone else, on some other colony. You could avenge your parents on all the mercenary scum who would orphan some other kid. I can help get you there, if you stick with me."

The boy at last looked up. Tears streamed from his eyes, but his determination was unwavering as he nodded. Royal found his gaze almost scary, even though he knew the anger was not meant for him. He took his hand off the boy's shoulder, peeked around the corner, then motioned for him to follow.

"This way," he directed. "You're running L3 implants, I'm guessing?"

"No. No implants."

Royal stopped mid-stride, having to shake off what he'd just heard before regaining his wits and pressing forward with the same caution as before. No implants! All biotics, except the naturally-gifted asari, needed special implants and extensive training to generate mass effect fields of any significance. To think that this kid had just smashed two batarians into a wall with his will alone...

"Who _are_ you, kid?"

"D-Donovan," the boy answered. "Donovan Shepard."

Earth – 2172 CE

Donovan wasn't his son. He wasn't even remotely related by blood. But Royal felt a big brother's pride all the same when he took the kid to enlist on his eighteenth birthday. He'd spared no expense for the occasion—half of his Lieutenant's commission that month had gone towards renting out the state of the art luxury shuttle to take them from Royal's posting on the SSV _Madrid_ to the Military Enlistment Processing Station back on Earth, as well as the executive suite where they were currently staying. For all his progress, the boy deserved no less.

He'd come a long way in the year and a half since his family had died. Royal's military contacts had quickly identified him as a potent specimen of biotic potential and subsequently bequeathed him with the most up-to-date L3 implants. He wouldn't be able to learn from military instructors until he enlisted, but Royal had put him in contact with several friends on the outside, both human and alien, who had taught him a few things. Beyond that, the boy had been living the spacer life, continuing his education from on-ship tutorials and e-books and seldom going planetside.

Whenever Royal took authorized leave, however, they rarely stayed in one place for longer than a few hours. The older man taught him the thrills of space exploration, dragging him along through systems known and unknown in spacecraft either rented or borrowed from friends. From Elysium to Rakhana, from Thessia to Palaven, they saw the best and worst of the galactic community, doing everything from hobnobbing with asari matriarchs to being tossed out of turian bars.

At first, the young Shepard had complained, not understanding why his guardian insisted on hauling him off to these places and getting into such trouble. After a time, however, he saw the value—building relationships with and learning the customs of alien races enriched one's life in more ways than one. A person would begin to see things from new perspectives, with an expanded philosophical or logical viewpoint, or talk one's way out of a situation he could not hope to fight his way through. And, all that notwithstanding, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

So it was that, with less than two years between his soul crushing loss and his enlistment, the traumatized teenager had become a learned, strong young man.

"What are you doing out here, Marcus?"

Royal snapped out of his thoughts, turning his head and grinning as he saw his young charge joining him at his side. They were on the balcony overlooking San Francisco, the night sky cloudless and star-spangled overhead. Luna was a few days away from showing her full face to the planet below, but her pale light still painted the city in gorgeous hues.

"Thought I'd take a moment to relive your glorious rise from the ashes," he said, chuckling to himself. "Few kids in your position would have come this far in so short a time. With willpower like yours, I'm pretty sure you'll be outranking me in a few years."

"If I have risen higher, it's because I've stood on the shoulders of a giant," Donovan replied. He grinned back—the slightest upturn of the lips, though his eyes lit up like blue beacons.

"Paraphrasing Newton? Come on, Donnie... you've been all over the place. Hit me with something original."

"Sorry, I got nothing," the young man admitted. "But I do mean it. I never would've come this far alone."

Royal nodded, returning his attention to the scenery outside. It was late spring, and the air was quite warm even on the higher floors of the building. The draft felt good on his bare arms and face. He got comfortable there, watching the skycars flit endlessly past below them; a metaphor for the flow of their lives.

"So," he asked, "You still doin' this for the same reasons as before?"

"To keep the mercs and slavers away from the other colonies?" Donnie replied. "Yes. But you taught me more than that. I'm doing this to protect innocent life everywhere."

Royal gave him a look of mock surprise. "Everyone, huh? You sure you wanna take up a task like that? You know you can't save everyone."

"I can try." Donovan leaned over the balcony and stared down at the traffic much as his guardian did. "I feel like I owe it to them, you know? As a survivor."

"Actually, I don't know," Royal admitted. "I'm a spacer, Donnie. I've lost marines in the service, but I've never lost most of a colony before. The student becomes the teacher in this case."

For a while they just stood at the balcony, savoring the quiet and the warmth of the night air. In this moment, each could see the other for what he was, what he had been, and the numerous paths stretched out before them both. They had shared their experiences and profited from each other's company as best they could, and now it was time for them to part and forge new paths on their own. Like the calm before the storm, each was bracing himself for the imminent shifting of the winds.

"_Madrid'_s headin' back to Arcturus in a few weeks," Royal said, breaking the silence. "Send me a message when you know where you're getting stationed."

"I'll catch the very first burst."

Satisfied, the Lieutenant turned and headed back into the hotel, shutting off the light behind him. It was nearing midnight, and both of them would need their rest for the following day. Tomorrow, Little Donnie would become Serviceman Donovan Shepard.

Akuze – 2177 CE

The initial reports had looked disastrous. An entire colonial pioneer team wiped out, probably the whole team of marines they'd sent to investigate, as well. Apart from the colonization effort on Akuze being completely ruined, a couple hundred people were dead, fifty of them good soldiers. This search effort was not expected to turn up any survivors.

Lieutenant Shepard had insisted on going, anyway. His friend had been a part of that team, and he had no intention of giving up on him without at least seeing for himself. His superiors had been reluctant to let him go, but being the hero who'd fought off a slew of batarians single-handedly during the Skyllian Blitz on Elysium a year ago had earned him more than enough pull to get him what he wanted. They'd given him only a small team and an unarmed shuttle, but he wouldn't need more than that. He wasn't the scared kid he'd been back on Mindoir, not anymore.

Now seven years older, he sported a half-day's worth of stubble on his face—like Royal, he was possessed of an adversity to shaving, though not his accent—as well as oaken hair cut high-and-tight, and an N7 insignia on his hardsuit. His blue eyes retained the same commanding determination that had got him noticed by his biotic instructors, his boot camp drill instructors, and his special forces training coordinator. His very presence commanded respect. More so now, since his face was well-known for his deeds on Elysium.

"You sure about this, sir?" The question had come from Private Meers, one of the four junior marines given to his command for this mission. The man was as green as a soldier could be, fresh out of boot camp.

"I'm sure," Shepard confirmed. "Don't worry. We're just making a quick sweep. In and out. If we don't pick up survivors, we don't even touch down."

His words seemed to relax Meers a little. Then Shepard afforded the recruit a small, reassuring smile, and he relaxed more. The Lieutenant knew when to ride his subordinates, but otherwise he preferred to be friendly. He was harsh to those who deserved it, but generous to the innocent. It was a behavior he exhibited in deference to his most important teacher out of all of them, the one who'd picked up on his steadfast determination first—the one he was about to drop onto Akuze to rescue.

Ten minutes later, they were in the atmosphere, flying over a small dust storm. Through the shuttle's viewports they could see little beyond the swirling red-brown clouds of dirt and debris. But Shepard knew they were above the colony. The blurry outlines of broken prefab units and one or two dead thresher maws were barely visible. Any minute now, if there was anything alive to find down there, the shuttle's sensors would pick it up.

"Got a signal," the pilot called back. "It's weak, but definitely Alliance. Taking her down for a closer look."

"Land as soon as you get a visual," Shepard ordered. He stood up, checking that his shotgun was securely buckled to his armor. Then he adjusted his bio-amp quickly and looked to his team. They were ready, though Meers had gotten a little nervous again. "Remember, we want this to be quick in case the thresher maws come back. Grab whatever survivors we find and haul 'em out, fast."

Less than a minute later, the shuttle airlock opened and Shepard led his team outside. The dust was choking, but the team was equipped with breathers. Leaving the shuttle hovering where it was, the marines drew weapons and advanced toward a small outcropping of rocks with a small, makeshift barricade filling in between the stone formations. They presumed this to be the source of the beacon.

They barely had time to look around before a tendril burst from the ground twenty feet away and came down on top of them. Shepard managed to deflect it with a biotic throw before it hit anyone, and scored a hit on it with his shotgun before it withdrew. It hardly mattered—the maw knew where they were. In a few seconds it would be upon them with its main body.

"Back to the ship!" Shepard yelled.

"What about you, sir?" Meers asked frantically.

"Get out of range! I'll call you when it's safe to pick me up."

The other marines hesitated, Meers included. They knew the Lieutenant was good—he'd proven that in the Blitz. But was he good enough to survive a thresher maw alone and on foot? There was a reason that they were trained to run like hell when they saw one.

This was one of the moments when Shepard found it appropriate to ride his subordinates. He turned and waved his hand angrily in the direction of the shuttle, shouting a single word that had the force of a hundred.

_"GO!"_

Nobody argued further. Less than ten seconds later the shuttle was high in the air, leaving Shepard on the ground by himself.

The Lieutenant pressed on, toward the makeshift bunker. From twenty feet away he couldn't tell if there was anyone alive inside. If the thresher was still hanging around nearby, though, Shepard believed—or maybe hoped—that someone was still alive inside. Of course, it could simply be that this particular beast had just lain where it had consumed its previous meal, having no reason yet to go searching elsewhere. He didn't like thinking that way, however. None of his brethren were dead until he saw the body himself.

But why hadn't the thresher simply surfaced inside the bunker rather than try to penetrate from the outside? Shepard stopped at the single entrance, wary of buried traps. A subterranean electric perimeter with voltage strong enough to dissuade a thresher maw would be a thousand times fatal to a human. Instead of entering, he lit a flare and waited, trying to hail the occupants over the radio.

"This is Lieutenant Shepard, Alliance Navy," he called. "Is there anyone still alive in there?"

A weak signal came back, barely intelligible through the static.

"Watch your ass!"

The thresher surfaced again, as Shepard knew it would, and this time he was more prepared. He loosed a grenade at the base of the ugly worm, then threw up a biotic barrier to keep the gnashing teeth at bay. The beast shrieked in agony as a bloody hole appeared in its side. It railed against the barrier, enraged and determined to squash this annoying morsel. Shepard held his ground, but even with his strength it was difficult to hold the maw back. He dropped one hand to try to throw another grenade, but this diverted his attention from the barrier and allowed the maw to crash to the sand less than a yard away from him.

Thrown by the impact, Shepard skidded to a halt some twelve or fifteen feet away. The grenade that he had attempted to draw fell from his hand, arming pin still lodged inside it. His shotgun had also been knocked loose and lay halfway between him and the angry alien predator. Now unarmed save for his biotics—and even those were waning, as he was already beginning to tire from their repeated use—he found himself in a difficult position. He fought as best he could, scrambling to his feet and scooping up his shotgun, but the thresher was on him now. The massive jaws opened wide, and Shepard raised his weapon in the hope of getting one more good blast in.

Fortunately, luck and the last remaining survivor were on his side. A loud _crack_ echoed in the wind as a high-powered, armor-piercing anti-material round passed through the thresher maw's skull at medium range, with just enough power to kill the creature. It slumped to the ground with a heavy thud and lay still.

"Saved your ass again, huh? What am I gonna do with you, Donnie?"

Shepard grinned inside his helmet as the voice came over the radio again, somewhat stronger. He turned just in time to see another human in N7 armor emerge from the bunker, carrying an enormous rifle with one hand. The left arm dangled uselessly, the armor and flesh encased within it shredded by thresher teeth. How he had managed to fire the weapon in such a state escaped even Shepard's able mind.

"You look like you've seen better days," he said. "You gonna make it back, Marcus?"

"Yeah," Royal replied shakily. "Don't know if I'll ever shake this off, though. Fifty good men... how the hell are they gone while I'm still here? I was trusted to lead them, and in the end the best I could do for them was sound the retreat and hide out here."

"It's okay now," Shepard reassured him. "We've killed the aliens responsible. You even got to finish it off."

"Yeah," Royal repeated, hanging his head. "But... does it really make a goddamned difference? They're still dead, and I'm alive because I was better at running and hiding than they were. You at least had the stones to stand your ground back on Mindoir."

"I didn't have the luxury of running and hiding. I waited until both my parents were dead before I did anything. And in the end you did the same thing I tried to do. We're both human. We both made mistakes, and we both did the best we could to compensate."

The elder soldier was quiet for a long time. He was lost in his head, staring back and forth between the dirt at his feet and the dead thresher. His visor wasn't tinted—Shepard could see that Royal was far from broken, but the guilt for this mission's failure and the loss of his men weighed heavily on him, and would continue to do so forever.

"You're right," he said finally. "I think I understand what went through your head all those years ago, Donnie. I just hope I can remember what went through mine."

Citadel – 2183 CE

Royal caught Shepard just as he came down the elevator from the Presidium. The Commander had just finished a meeting with the Council, and from the look on his face—that same hard, unwavering determination he'd possessed on Mindoir—the older warrior could see that things had gone just about as well as he'd hoped. Humanity had made huge sacrifices to save the Council and their flagship, _Destiny Ascension, _from the swarm of geth, and then to take down the monstrous Reaper, _Sovereign._ With such a display of bravery and sacrifice, humanity's bid for a seat on the Council—a long time coming—must have finally met with success, due in no small part to Shepard himself.

"Damn, Donnie," he drawled, popping out from behind a blackened structural pillar. "When you were talkin' about saving the whole goddamned galaxy, you meant it. How's it feel to be everyone's hero again?"

Eyes sharp as a hawk's but gentle as the ocean on a calm day found him immediately. Shepard was definitely weathered from his ordeals, and yet he found a way to look stronger than ever. His lips twisted in a rare smile as he altered course to come stand with his former mentor.

"Marcus," he said. "Good to see you. Was your ship out there with the Fifth Fleet?"

"It was," Royal confirmed. "_Perugia. _One of the lucky ones who didn't take a direct hit. Would rather have had your job though, I think."

"If anyone else deserves to have their name put in for the Spectres, it'd be you." Shepard shook his hand firmly, standing near the bulkhead but not leaning on it. "You wouldn't believe some of the people that ask me for recommendations. One of them hadn't even served a day in the Alliance."

Royal took a minute to look the Commander over. They hadn't seen each other since the incident on Akuze, and he'd changed significantly. If nothing else, Royal could see that he'd become substantially more powerful, as befitted a Spectre. Even through the ablative armor plating, it was evident that Shepard had put on muscle, and he carried himself with the deliberation and grace of a natural predator as well as military professionalism. Not only that, but rumor had it that he could snap a krogan's spine with a single biotic push.

He, by contrast, still looked much the same as he had on Mindoir when he'd first met Shepard. His hair was longer and slicked back, and his gun-metal irises seemed more tired in their blackened eyesockets, but that was about it. Not that he hadn't changed at all—the arm he'd shattered on Akuze had been repaired and enhanced with extensive cybernetics, and his skill as a sniper and a hacker were rivaled by few others in the service.

"I'd be honored," he finally answered. "But I gotta admit, you look the part much better than I do. Now, are you goin' to answer my question, mister badass Spectre?"

Shepard gave a small sigh. "I'm relieved that we stopped Saren," he said. "But we lost too many people in the process."

"I heard about Chief Williams," Royal nodded. "It sounds like she was a hell of a soldier. The salarians and the turians are both talking about giving her some posthumous medals."

"She was a good friend, too," Shepard assented, his face falling for an instant. "But it's not just about her. Look at how many had to die just to stop one Reaper. If we have to fight a whole fleet of those things..." His words trailed off, and he shook his head.

"I hear you," Royal said. "A lot of folks are decrying your story as a load of horse shit, but I believe it. You wouldn't lie about this kind of thing, Donnie. For what it's worth, anyway."

"It's worth a lot." Shepard's determination returned, but his smile didn't. "Thank you."

"You're going to see this through to the very end, aren't you?"

Silence hung between them, louder than the explosion of a thousand suns, yet the drop of a pin would have shattered it. Each man stared into the eyes of the other, seeing all the roads that had led them to this point, and knowing that there was now only one road for both of them to follow. The storm had broken; now was the time to build the arc, for the flood was coming.

"Never mind," Royal said finally. "I already know. And I'm proud of you. With this, I can leave the Council and the Alliance in your capable hands."

Shepard took a step back, confused and bewildered.

"What do you mean by that, Marcus?"

"I mean that I'm resigning my commission. You and I both know that these Reapers are more of a threat than anything organic life has ever faced. They need to be fought with everything we have, and I can't contribute if I'm stuck on the _Perugia._ I'll have better luck on my own."

"But what can you do?" Shepard seemed to realize he was right, but still didn't understand where he meant to go. "Without a ship or a crew, you won't be much better off."

Royal smiled. He wasn't quite ready to tell Shepard about the ace in the hole he'd been saving—he doubt his old friend would approve, especially since he wasn't even certain that his sources hadn't been hallucinating. If the information was good, however, he just might have uncovered a weapon that could be adapted to send the Reapers right back into obscure mythology.

"Trust me," he said. "I'm a survivor, too, remember? I'll find what I need. But I need to know that I'm leaving the greater galactic community in good hands. I need to know that they'll still have their hero 'til I come back."

"Why not come with me?" Shepard suggested. "There's room on the _Normandy_, and we could use someone with your skills."

"No, Donnie," Royal said, shaking his head. "Our little two-man army can't ride again. Not yet. But if my own errand goes well enough, I'll be back in half a heartbeat... and I'll be packing."

The tides of fate crashed around them. Royal felt the waves drawing Shepard back out to the roiling seas. He was being drawn out, as well, on a parallel but—for now—separate current. The two sized each other up once more, then shook hands.

"Good luck, Marcus," Shepard said.

"Good hunting, old friend," he answered.

They each gave the other a nod, then turned and walked away.


	2. MISSION 1: DEPLOYMENT

Version 1.00 Notes: Written during a relentless cold. A little unsure of myself after having not written a full chapter in so long. Hoping to have positive feedback and improve upon future drafts. The dream sequence at the beginning came to my head after a frightening little dream of my own, but instead of doing pull-ups in three-gee, I finished up my workday and then wrote about it at the last minute before loading up the chapter. Hopefully it was a worthy addition. Same goes for the rest of the chapter.

**Mission One: Deployment**

_Flames surrounded him, their heat pressing in closer by the second, the incineration of his flesh only moments away. All around him he heard the scream of those for whom it was already too late, a grim reminder of what was waiting for him at the end of this long, futile game of cat and mouse. No, not against the fires—the true enemy was a demon who rained not only fire, but death and slavery upon his home. The slavemasters and butchers with four black, beady eyes and ugly, flaring nostrils. _

_ Evil was upon Mindoir again._

_ He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, looking for anyone who could help him, anything he could use to stop this senseless destruction. But the farther and faster he ran, the hotter the fires got, and the louder the screaming became. Farther and farther and hotter and louder, until each footfall was met with such din that he had to cover his ears to keep his head from shattering, and such heat that his shoes began to melt underneath him. _

_ And then he rounded the corner, and saw his parents die again. His father had tried to protect them, his mother and him. But he was merely an agricultural worker; he was cut down like the grain they had only yesterday finished harvesting. Blood was everywhere, staining the blue grasses red. His mother wailed with grief and horror, and then the demons took her, too. Her head exploded, and he was covered head to toe in blood and brains and bits of skull. He wanted to scream, to cry, but he couldn't._

_ Then one of the demons tried to restrain him. They meant to drag him back to hell alive. He would be their puppet, living to serve. He would be forced to lift, to carry, and to push. When he was too tired to continue and fell to his knees, he would be beaten until he rose up and continued anyway, or else until he was a useless, bloody heap. Then he would die, and his soul would join those of his parents in eternal torment. _

_ "NO!"_

_ He lashed out with what he thought was his arm, and the demons flew away. They crumpled to the bloodstained ground, all broken but one. He didn't know what he had done. No power like that had ever been in his family. Both he and the remaining demon faced each other, stunned at what he had done. _

_ But this was only temporary. Slowly, he felt the rage begin to return. He didn't care where his power came from. He only wanted the demon to go away. He cocked his arm to swing again._

_ The demon's head exploded, a sniper round doing to the alien skull what the pistol had done to his mother. Then he was being dragged away by another human. His voice was sympathetic and comforting, but urgent. They needed to get away from this place. A quick escape was needed now, before the demons came back. He let himself be hauled away by his wrist, too stunned to be angry at the man for depriving him of his final revenge. _

_ Again, this was temporary. When the man brought him to his ship, insisting that they leave right away, he caught sight of the demons again. He hated them! He wanted to rend them, gut them! He struggled and broke free of the man's grasp and ran to them. The power built in his body, coiling and pulsing and begging to be used. His family demanded vengeance. _

_ But the demons were ready this time. They came together as one, four-eyed devils locking arms against him. Then they merged, their bodies forming into the true demon: a massive, black hulk with a sleek metal skin, legs like a centipede's, and eyes burning brighter than suns. Too late, he realized he faced his end. Enormous, cold metal fingers closed around him, slowly crushing him. His bones snapped and pushed through his skin, some spearing his organs. His blood ran out over the dirt of his broken home, and as his life ebbed away he heard the devil speak._

_ "You cannot stop us." _

SKEPSIS SYSTEM – 2186 CE

Shepard sat bolt upright, cold sweat making his bedsheets cling to his body. Frantically he glanced left, then right, his eyes darting over the room for any sign of the Reaper or its underlings. Then his gaze settled on the bedside alarm clock, which read 02:43 and was currently playing a slow, soothing orchestral theme with the volume set low. It was the only source of light in the room, save the soft glow of the fish tank heaters on the wall to his right. Even this dim illumination, he could see that he was alone.

_That dream again,_ he told himself, shaking his head violently to get the images out of his head. The dream had followed him all the way from Mindoir. It haunted him almost every night in his early years, and though time and focus on training had buried it deep in his subconscious, from time to time it would resurface.

The exact events would differ between instances, but the pattern was almost always the same. He would be thrust into a dying world, with fire and demons all around him. Sometimes the demons were batarian, like on Mindoir or Elysium. Sometimes the victims he saw murdered were his parents. Other times they were geth or krogan and ripping Ashley to pieces just before the bomb on Virmire went off. He'd even watched Collectors tearing apart members of his current crew, the ones who hadn't died yet. In the end, however, he always found himself forced to watch them die, powerless to stop it, and then he'd run away until he could run no more, and charge headlong into the demons only to be completely dismembered himself.

Since his resurrection, however, one thing had been added to his dream that he had not seen before. The Reaper, bringer of annihilation, had begun showing up at the end of every dream. It was never the same one, and its precise method of destroying him was always different. They had two things in common—it was always a Reaper, and the feeling of his body slowly dying was always horrifyingly vivid.

Shepard rolled out of bed and cued the lights, soft white brilliance banishing the darkness back into space. It was very early by ship's time, but he refused to go back to sleep with Harbinger and its kin waiting for him beneath the pillows.

Several hours later, he had suspended himself from a conveniently placed pipe hanger located in his private restroom, which he'd found only a month ago while making repairs to the ship. He had not had any convenient place to add pull-ups to his fitness routine beforehand. Now, though, all he needed to do was temporarily remove a ceiling panel and his handhold was ready for use. So long as he cleaned up the perspiration on the floor afterward, the small compartment was an adequate place to perform his workout.

_Sixty-five... Sixty-six..._

His muscles were screaming at him, and a fairly large puddle had accumulated on the floor. With the gravity generator set to create three times the standard weight in his quarters, just standing up required tremendous effort. An average human would have found it nearly impossible to do even one pull-up, and likely given up after a few tries.

_Sixty-seven... Sixty-eight..._

He embraced the pain. It was a verification of the energy being released from his body, of stresses being burned away and forgotten in a sea of lactic acid. Though primitive, this momentary distraction from the nearly constant mental strains of his unsung struggle was nonetheless more effective than almost every alternative.

For the last eight weeks he'd run a veritable gauntlet of challenges in every corner of the galaxy. Miranda and the Lazarus Project had forced life back into his body after his death at the hands of the Collectors, and he had not been awake for a minute before he'd been thrown to the wolves. No sooner had he escaped the compromise of the facility where he'd been reborn than he was standing before the Illusive Man, leader of the human-supremacist terror cell Cerberus. The Man sent him off in a brand new ship with a freshly handpicked crew to gather forces for an attack on the very group that had previously killed him.

Shepard had fought the Reapers' puppets before in the form of the synthetic geth, but the Collectors had had all of the advanced technology of the dead Protheans and several hundred generations of genetic and cybernetic repurposing. Not only that, but the chase through the Terminus Systems—where laws and authority were decided by who had the most and best muscle—had been fraught with perils completely unrelated to the Collector threat. Mercenaries, slavers, drug runners, extortionists, and every type of thug and villain imaginable populated that space. Shepard witnessed atrocities that almost made him think the Reapers would be right to wipe everyone out.

_Sixty-nine..._ Thud.

At last, his hands could grip the pipe hanger no longer, and he dropped back onto the floor, panting. His arms burned with fatigue, and he could barely manage to lift them above his head, but he forced himself to do so. It made catching his breath easier, and he needed to wipe the sweat from his brow before the salt stung his eyes. Focusing his will, he slowly but steadily brought his respiration and heartbeat down to resting rate.

When it was done, he let his arms fall to his sides and turned to examine himself in the mirror. An extremely well-muscled, shirtless, sweaty, and somewhat bruised thirty-two year old man blinked back at him. He was not a narcissist—it had been said he wouldn't even bother to groom himself if the entire galaxy didn't have him under their collective microscopes—but on those rare occasions when he did stop to look at himself, he was always overwhelmed by how radically different he was from the last time. In his previous encounter with the reflective glass, he'd only just finished his escape from the Lazarus facility. He remembered marveling at how good a job they'd done in his reconstruction. Aside from a few ghastly scars through which his cybernetic implants were visible, he'd looked almost exactly the same as he'd been at his death.

Of course, there had been numerous subtle changes. His nose had retained the same shape, but was set slightly higher on his face. His jaw had protruded just a little bit more prominently. Much to his amusement, he had found that Miranda had taken the liberty of having his stubbly beard shaved off, leaving only a vertical stripe running down his chin, and had somehow managed to turn his natural hair color from a light brown to something much more reddish. The most significant changes, however, went beyond the superficial. His L3 biotic implants had been replaced with prototype L5n's, and the synthetic fibers woven through all parts of his musculoskeletal system made him stronger and more durable than was possible for an average human.

This time when he looked himself over, Shepard had to admit that, despite the failures he was forced to see in his dreams, he'd come much farther than he'd ever expected to go since his departure from Mindoir, and not merely physically. Despite the pain of losing his family, he'd recovered and gone on to save more lives than were lost, with fewer and fewer casualties on every successive mission. On Elysium his kill zone had been littered with almost four times as many batarian attackers as human victims. On Feros, he'd lost a total of three civilians. In the battle on Virmire, the only death he could claim responsibility for was Ashley Williams, and then only because the geth had given him the impossible choice. Now, two years later, he had just taken his squad through a previously unnavigable mass relay to a region where no non-Collector vessel had ever survived, reduced the Collectors' entire base to irradiated rubble, and lost not a single life. In the last eight weeks, through tedium and hardships that would have destroyed a lesser man a hundred times over, his scars—both physical and emotional—had nonetheless healed.

Running a hand over the relatively smooth skin of his face once, he shook off the fatigue of his workout and offered his mirror image a small, tired smile. The war was nowhere near over. Now, however, for the first time, he was finally starting to feel ready for it.

Of course, he wasn't going to win anything by standing around looking at his reflection. Nodding to himself, he turned away from the mirror and began to undress while he forced his thoughts to turn to his next task. Repairs to the _Normandy_ had just been completed a galactic standard day previously, concluding a long and costly process that covered everything from electrical load centers and support systems right up to the superstructure and mass effect core. With his ship at full capability again, it was time to start preparing for the Reaper fleet. Deprived of the Citadel relay that was their normal path into the galaxy and having lost their primary agents, there was nothing left for the hyper-advanced death machines to do except slowly advance from Dark Space under their own power. This would delay them, but not for long. In time, hundreds or even thousands of ships would descend upon the Milky Way, each one powerful enough to wipe out half of the Citadel's defense forces.

The galaxy needed a fleet—a big one.

Naked, Shepard stepped under the showerhead and turned on the hot water, his mind working at a mile-a-minute pace. Possible allies danced through his head, as did the numerous obstacles to recruiting them to his cause. As the endorphins released during his workout began to wear off he became acutely aware of how tired he was, but he ignored it. After the _Normandy_ made a brief stop to replenish fuel and food stores, he planned to make a galaxy-wide call to arms before the Citadel Council, which would be no easy task. Knowing what to say, as well as how and to whom to say it, was crucial. He needed to plan.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts and in mechanically scrubbing his skin clean that he didn't even hear the door to his cabin slide open. It was another half-minute before he registered the footsteps outside the bathroom. Barely distracted, he spared enough time to call out to his unknown guest, uttering only three words before returning to work.

"In the shower."

To his surprise, his guest did not immediately leave, but instead opened the bathroom door. Shepard whipped around, too bewildered to think of covering himself. Then he blinked his eyes, his confusion mounting higher as he saw that the intruder had hidden out of sight behind the doorframe to the right. He could see a distorted shadow, but no body.

Then he heard a faint _snap-hiss_ from around the corner, and realization dawned. He grinned broadly, then put the soap down and stood waiting, simply letting the warm water rush over him. "What are you hiding from?" he joked. "Don't tell me you're still nervous."

A two-toed boot flew at his head in answer, but it was thrown softly and he easily caught it. He tossed it away lightly and crossed his arms over his chest, smirking. The guest remained out of sight and continued to undress, throwing a helmet visor, a quilted shawl, and a form-fitting enviro-suit into an untidy pile on the floor. Only when everything had been removed did Tali step through the doorway and join him under the steaming water.

"You know," Shepard said, "You didn't have to wait until the middle of the day. I would've been happy to see you last night."

"With Joker pushing the drive core twice as hard as he should be less than a day after we finish repairing it? I would have been happy to see you, too, but I had to save us all from death by inadvertent drive discharge."

Even as she half-complained, Tali wrapped her small frame tightly around Shepard's, intertwining their legs and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Her body temperature was usually lower than his, and she was always eager for his warmth. Shepard was still getting used to feeling three fingers on his bare back as opposed to five, but other than that he was all too happy to reciprocate.

"Blame me, not Joker," he told her. "I told him to get us to the Citadel as fast as he could. I forgot how literally he takes it when he gets told to 'floor it.'"

"Yet now you complain when I come to see you the first chance I get. Hypocrisy isn't a good way to keep the loyalty of your crew, Captain," she teased.

Shepard reached down and pinched her bottom playfully, causing her to squirm against him in a way that he found most gratifying. He merely smirked when she punched his shoulder in retaliation—it had been well worth it. "I'm not a hypocrite. My schedule's on the ship's intranet. You knew I was busy."

"You think I give a damn? I've worked hard for nine days. I've earned one night with my boyfriend."

Shepard laughed. Tali was always generous and cooperative—it was part of her quarian nature—but since they had spent their first night together, she had started adopting more aggressive behaviors whenever she happened to be naked. Perhaps it came from the thrill of being free of her enviro-suit for a few hours. Maybe she did it to make the most of her time with him. Or maybe it was simply a part of who she was, suppressed by a lifetime of necessity for isolation and selflessness that briefly flared to life when it was just the two of them.

Whichever it happened to be, Shepard didn't much care; regardless of the reason, it made being her lover that much more fun.

"Fair enough," he conceded. Spinning suddenly, he lifted her from the ground until her eyes were level with his and pinned her gently to the nearby wall. "Your move, Miss vas Normandy."

As the steam engulfed them and flooded the room, Tali laid into him like a predator devouring a fresh kill. Shepard let her set the pace, for now. He'd re-assert his dominance before they were through.

_Hell_, he thought, _I could use a break_. Planning the salvation of the galaxy could wait a little longer.

CITADEL - SAME DATE

After having served on the _Normandy_ SR-1, Kaidan Alenko thought the Alliance would eventually either decide his service was outstanding enough to give him a ship of his own or that his relationship to the wayward Commander Shepard was grounds to bury him in some unimportant desk job. At first, it had looked like the latter. Then, after two years, he'd found himself on the colony of Horizon—officially, as a representative of the Alliance in a sector that had no love for them, and unofficially with the intent of confronting Shepard over his rumored relationship with Cerberus. He knew he'd been used, but he had the sense not to complain. After that, his performance began to reward him with better duties, and it seemed he was on his way towards prospective captaincy.

However, he never imagined that his career would take a turn like this. Less than half a year later, he was standing in an Alliance docking bay in front of a crew of about two dozen, poised to make the initial boarding and inspection of his own ship: The _Normandy_-class frigate SSV _Bull Run_. He was to take her out for shakedown the following morning, and immediately after would proceed with his first command mission.

The decision, as Councilor Anderson had told him, came as a result of Alenko's unique experience in matters related to this particular mission. Though his former Captain was not authorized to say more, Kaidan did understand that this undoubtedly meant involvement of one or more Reapers. Given that their destination was supposed to be the human colony on Elysium—a colony which, as the extranet and Citadel newsnet had begun spouting this morning, had had its main spaceport as well as the Shepard Memorial Plaza and everything in between targeted for what was considered a terrorist attack—he also had reason to assume that the Reapers had help. Not the Geth or the Collectors; those had been all but wiped out. Even so, it was certain to get ugly.

Which was why Kaidan was extremely uncomfortable at the moment. Shepard had succeeded because of his steadfast determination, his open-mindedness, and a personal magnetism powerful enough to hold together a team of aliens from cultures as different as apples and oranges and gain the trust of each. Even with supposedly human-supremacist Cerberus personnel on board, Shepard had crewed the _Normandy _SR-2 with an even larger and more diverse crew than the original ship, and gone off into the unknown with them to eradicate the enigmatic Collectors, proving Alenko's perception of his betrayal completely wrong. Kaidan had no real prejudice against aliens, and he was a devoted Alliance soldier as well as a talented one. When it came down to it, however, he didn't believe he was made of the same stuff.

Still, he had his duty: try really, really hard to emulate Commander Shepard, and find out what it was the Reapers were up to this time.

"Ten-hut!"

The _Bull Run_'s crew snapped to attention at the order of their Chief as Kaidan approached. Kaidan recognized the tall, bald, and stern-looking NCO as Gunnery Chief Garth Thompson, whom he'd served with before. _Of course,_ he thought. _Anderson would've seen to it that I got one or two familiar faces in the mix. _"Weren't they supposed to put you on ice for that time with the Admiral's daughter?" he asked, returning Garth's crisp salute with a small smirk.

"They tried to, sir," the Chief answered somewhat smugly. "Fortunately, Tara has very talented friends. The vid-mails were off the extranet before her father or any lawyers got hold of them."

Kaidan's smirk became more noticeable for a second before it disappeared and he let his arm drop to his side as he proceeded with the inspection of his new crew. It was a respectable bunch, with a healthy mix of nervous new blood and gritty old salts, all with impeccable uniforms and perfectly-shined boots. Every one of them seemed to know and respect him, at least from what they'd seen on public channels.

A few more familiar faces passed him by. Serviceman Chad Glacier, similar to Chief Thompson in build but easygoing and mischievous by contrast. Flight Lieutenant Jessica Wood, or "Twig," whose call sign was supposed to be a play on her last name rather than a reference to her thin, wispy build and cedar-colored hair. Corporal Lawrence Meers, a stocky blond marine who had been much more nervous the last time Kaidan had seen him. Two or three more faces stood out as well, though none that Kaidan could put a name to.

One such soldier was at the very end of the line, a young, small female with auburn hair tied back in a neat bun. She looked fresh out of high school, and despite her perfect military bearing she looked disconcertingly out of place in her uniform. Kaidan gave her the once-over he gave every serviceman, lingering just a little longer on her face. The deep brown eyes and the facial structure bore a striking resemblance to someone Kaidan had known before, but the name wasn't coming to him off the top of his head. Silently he swore, wishing he'd brought the roster with him. "What's your name, soldier?" he asked—calmly as he could, so as not to betray his interest.

"Williams, sir," she answered, her voice like a bell going off in his mind. "Private Second Class Sarah Williams."

_Williams,_ he echoed in his head. _Ash's little sister. I should've known. _Kaidan wondered what the Council and the Alliance were playing at, thrusting an emotional landmine like this into his crew. He and Ashley had not been romantically involved—she had favored Commander Shepard in that sense—but the two of them and the Commander had been tight, especially in the days leading up to the Virmire mission.

Of course, he also had to wonder what had led such a girl into the service—and to accepting this assignment—of her own will? By Ashley's own admittance, her whole family was blacklisted in the Alliance military, their grandfather being the only human ever to surrender a colony to an alien force. Not only that, but Sarah didn't look like she belonged here. He knew she'd taken Aikido and was capable of defending herself against ruffians and pushy boyfriends, but did that make her ready for war at such a young age?

_It had to have been Virmire,_ he thought. Ashley had given her life to ensure that the bomb went off and destroyed Saren Arterius's krogan cloning facility, while the rest of the team rescued Kaidan and the salarian Special Tasks Group operatives he'd help lead. As a result, she'd been postumously awarded the highest honors of both the turian and salarian governments, which must have improved the reputation of her family. Her noble death had probably spurred her youngest sister's enlistment out of a desire to live up to her sister's example—or to avenge her death. Either way, Kaidan wasn't certain how having her on the team was going to play out.

Williams seemed to notice his discomfort, even if she couldn't guess the reason. "Is there something wrong, sir?"

"As you were, Williams," he said quickly, turning from her and marching back to Chief Thompson to avoid engaging her further. He knew he'd have to work with her, which meant he'd eventually have to talk to her, but before that he needed to sort out his thoughts... and before even that, he still had a ship to shake down.

"Orders, sir?" Garth asked, ready and able as always.

"Get everyone aboard and start the initial systems check," Kaidan told him. "If we can, I want her flying sometime tonight. No sense waiting around if the enemy is who I think it is."

"Aye, sir. Crew, fall out! To your stations!"

Everyone eagerly picked up and, one by one, began to board the _Bull Run._ Most newer servicemen gave the airlock an awe-struck glance before going through, unable to believe their luck in assignment and that this state-of-the-art vessel would be their new home. The older crew simply shouldered their bags and strode aboard without a second look. Kaidan watched them go, trying not to let his gaze or his thoughts linger too long on Sarah.

Fortunately, she wasn't the only thing bothering him, so the task was quite easy. He frowned, realizing that one final crewman had not arrived. No, not a crewman, he corrected himself—a partner and vital personnel to the success of the mission, but not officially part of the ship's company. Kaidan had never met the man, and reportedly few had, though he was rumored to be an exceptionally talented fighter and able to get into places most couldn't even approach within a hundred clicks.

This meant that Kaidan didn't trust him, but he had no choice. The order had come from the Council itself, and even Anderson had agreed that it was in their best interests to take him along. Though by his admission not even the Council was sure that he was totally on their side, he was more than a capable warrior and tactician, and he supposedly had experience with the Reapers and their pawns that most people lacked. Kaidan had argued—politely, of course—out of reasonable concern that he couldn't trust anyone that Anderson wouldn't trust and that he had his own experience with the Reapers, but he'd known from the beginning that it was a losing battle. Like Williams, he'd just have to learn to put up with it.

_At least I'm still in command of the ship,_ he thought. The specialist was supposed to guide and oversee the mission, but the decisions would ultimately fall to Kaidan. If his guest didn't like it, he was more than welcome to disembark at the nearest port and do things his own way, on someone else's ship.

Williams passed him, and looked him over ponderously. She saw where he was looking—towards the docking bay doors. Correctly, she deduced what he was thinking about. "Sir," she asked, "Wasn't there supposed to be a Spectre with us?"

Kaidan was about to gently ask her to pose her questions to her NCO when he was stopped by a metallic grip on his unarmored shoulder. Whirling around, he found himself face to face with thin air.

"Settle down, Commander Alenko."

The voice came from in front of him, but Kaidan didn't see who had spoken until he materialized, the air shimmering around him as his cloaking mechanism deactivated. All of a sudden, the Commander was face-to-chin with a tall, fully armored and helmeted figure whose gear was painted jet-black with navy blue trim. This was all that Kaidan could use to describe it, for it was unlike any armor he'd seen before, and definitely not standard-issue. The chestpiece was slightly bulkier than one usually saw, and there were penetrations for more than the standard number of subsystems. Armoring the shoulders were two spaulders, one fairly standard-sized and angular, the left one twice as large and rounded, painted entirely blue. An odd, ornate strip of cloth was strung from it and trailed behind him like a blue-and-white patterned scarf.

The helmet, though, was the strangest piece of all. At first it looked like a modified version taken from one of the new Kestrel suits Kaidan had started seeing a few months ago, with traditional transparent visor replaced by a solid plate with many built-in cameras that transmitted visual data as well as infrared and ladar scans to an internal Heads-Up-Display. The Kestrel helmet, however, left the mouth uncovered, while this one had a rebreather mask fitted into it, completely obscuring the wearer's face. In addition, it had an inlaid antenna on the right-rear plating whose purpose Kaidan could not discern.

Combined with the stranger's manner of appearance, the overall effect was to cause all unboarded crew to stop dead in their tracks and stare, and Kaidan to recoil in surprise. The stranger seemed to find this amusing; he laughed from behind his helmet, the mask distorting his voice so that it came out as a deep baritone with the gravelly undertone of one speaking through a radio. "Scared you good, didn't I?"

Kaidan appreciated the Spectre's sense of humor as much as he appreciated the circumstances that led to his assignment to the ship. It was impossible to tell whether the man behind the mask was human or batarian—it might even have been drell, depending on whether the middle two fingers moved together or not. Regardless, the Commander was not happy with his sudden intrusion, and it showed through in his voice. "Surprised me, for sure. I hope you don't plan on greeting the pilot that way; Twig might get up and break your faceplate."

"Or _you _might_,_ eh?" the Spectre asked. "I can tell that we've already gotten off to a bad start, and the Councilor said you might be mistrustful. Thought opening with a little practical joke might help break the ice, so to speak."

"I appreciate the thought," Kaidan lied, "But I'd prefer to stay focused on getting the ship ready to go. You know the mission—it's not going to be a picnic."

All trace of humor vanished from the Spectre's voice. "Fair enough. Name's Monarch, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. I'll be your guide and Council Representative on this mission." He held out his hand to Kaidan.

Warily, Kaidan shook the metal-clad appendage while staring up into the expressionless faceplate. "You could take that off and greet me in person," he commented.

But Monarch simply shrugged, reaching up and tapping the helmet lightly. "I would if I could," he said. "But that could be hazardous to my health, so I'll pass. No offense."

"What does that mean?" Kaidan inquired, growing even more wary and releasing his hand.

The Spectre just shrugged again and turned to walk into the ship's airlock, apparently not caring if Kaidan followed him. He did, and the two of them made their way into _Bull Run'_s CIC.

The _Bull Run_ was even more a magnificent ship than the _Normandy_ SR1 was, from what Kaidan remembered. The soft blue and grey color of the interior was familiar and felt like home, and the layout was the same modified turian-style setup as before, with the command panel aft of the rest of the crew. The interfaces were much the same, as well. Differences were apparent, however, in that the diagram of the ship hovering near the center showed marked effort to upgrade the armor and guns, and in the several additional instrument panels and an upgraded power distribution configuration that reflected recent technological gains in Alliance ship design. Kaidan thought he could scarcely have done better for a first command assignment.

Of course, he'd probably need it.

"They tell you who the target is on this little errand they sent us on?" Monarch asked. He was also marveling at the details of the ship's many wonders, though he kept his mind focused on the mission. If nothing else, Kaidan would credit the man on his professionalism.

"Terrorists," he replied curtly. "But given the class of ship and the personnel they're sending, and the path the attackers were reported to have taken, I'm positive it's more than a few angry batarian radicals." He brought up a map of the colony as he spoke, dragging his finger from Elysium's spaceport directly to Shepard Memorial Plaza. In the corner of his eye he saw Sarah Williams watching them from her guard post across the CIC, but he redirected his attention quickly. "Though, given their choice of targets one can assume they tried pretty hard to make it look like it was. Shepard's heroics really rattled the batarians."

Monarch nodded. "Good eye. Now, what if I told you that you're right, and that the attackers were human?"

"Human?" Kaidan questioned. Then, he had an idea. "Cerberus?"

"They might have a hand in this, somehow," Monarch replied, "But this next tidbit all but rules out direct involvement. Our 'terrorists' were affected by nano-technology that transformed them into bio-synthetic hybrids. While I'm not one to make blind assumptions, my guess is that it's Reaper technology at work."

"What makes you so sure?" Kaidan asked. In reality, he admitted it was a good theory, but he wanted to hear the Spectre's thinking. The Council said he had first-hand Reaper experience, but he'd believe it when Monarch showed him some proof.

Monarch answered by bringing up an image with his omni-tool. The picture was blurry and distorted, but the subject was undeniably human, albeit with a plethora of tubes and wires sticking out of him and two bloody shotgun wounds. Next to that, he toyed with the monitor, running bystander footage of the attack on Elysium that seemed to have been taken from a high balcony. Though farther away, the picture was much more focused, and the same tubes and wires seemed to be running up and down the limbs of five or six adult humans wreaking havoc within the crowds. Bodies were flying everywhere, some in more than one piece, from biotic attacks, physical beatings, and gunfire.

"This fellow here," he said, indicating the still picture, "Was Paul Grayson. He was a Cerberus test subject. They injected him with what the reports called 'self-replicating nanides,' which were meant to repurpose him into a tool of our favorite harbingers of the apocolypse."

"Where did you get that?" Kaidan asked incredulously. "Nobody I know from the Alliance saw anything like that."

Monarch tapped his helmet. "Spectre, remember?"

Kaidan had to try very, very hard not to roll his eyes. "All right. I'll take your word for it. But are you sure it's linked to this attack?"

"That, my friend," Monarch answered, sounding pleased, "Is what we're going to find out. That, and to see if _this_ guy here..." he highlighted and zoomed in on one of the attackers, who appeared to be leading the assault, "... is who we think he is."

Even squinting, it was difficult to make out the leader's face. But once Kaidan's eyes adjusted and he got a good look, he found himself taking a step back, blinking, and looking again, before shaking his head and running a hand through his black hair in stark disbelief.

"No," he thought out loud. "It can't be."

Though Monarch offered neither confirmation nor denial, Sarah Williams, in her small corner of the CIC, bit her lip.


	3. MISSION 2: THE HUNT

Version 1.00 Notes: I worked long into the night to make this one work. Facts from both games and the previous two chapters intermingled into something unintelligible for a while, but I finally managed to straighten it out into something coherent, albeit abnormally long. Please take the time to offer your criticism as you peruse this update.

**Mission Two: The Hunt**

PLANET WATSON, SKEPSIS SYSTEM – 09:20 LOCAL TIME (8 HOURS LATER)

His unexpected rendezvous with Tali had provided him with some much-needed stress relief, but now Shepard wasn't so certain that leaving his door unlocked for her at all hours of the day was a good idea. Eight hours later, he was certain that Kasumi, the _Normandy's_ resident master thief, had taken the liberty of spreading the gory details of the encounter to over half the female crew. Even now, as he strode through the busy walkways of the planet Watson's main spaceport, he thought he heard her snickering over it to Garrus behind his back. Being the stoic turian that he was, Garrus didn't give her much incentive to continue—at least not while in Shepard's presence—but it would be a popular conversational topic among the crew for the next several days. He contemplated telling Jacob about Kasumi's dirty little secret, but knew that in the end he wouldn't; it wasn't his place. Instead, he let it go for now and focused on what they were doing.

A party of six had disembarked from the _Normandy. _ Shepard had brought Kasumi along both because she was human and, therefore, welcome on the planet, and because she would be able to secure supplies without drawing attention to the landing party, or even to the ship. The remaining four people were Shepard's best and most trusted fire team members, which along with him made up a five-person squad. He led the formation flanked by Jacob Taylor, a shotgun-toting biotic of African-American who had spent time in both the Alliance and Cerberus, and whose personality inspired cooperation and cool-headedness. Samara was behind Shepard in the middle rank, where her powerful asari biotics and assault rifle could provide support in all directions. Tali was back in her elaborately-patterned purple environment suit and walking next to Garrus despite the fact that she carried a shotgun, due to the fact that this particular shotgun—being of geth design—was capable of being effective from greater distance than Jacob's Eviscerator and her technological expertise made her too valuable to waste on the front line. In the rear walked the avian-figured, raptor-toothed turian with assualt weapon and sniper rifle slung over his shoulders, trying not to let his explosion-scarred left cheek draw too many stares.

"Garrus," Shepard asked, "You're sure your contact is reliable?" The turian had professed to know a member of an "independent" arms dealer who sold the specialized cartridges that enabled the _Normandy'_s Thanix Magnetic-Hydrodynamic Cannon to fire. Without it, the ship was forced to rely only on its state-of-the-art, but significantly less effective GARDIAN lasers and Javelin torpedo launchers. Though Shepard had only had to fire the main gun twice since its installation, there was no question as to whether or not he would need to again.

Of course, weapons of that caliber were rare, and the ammunition was not readily available unless one knew where to look. They certainly weren't Alliance-issue. Fortunately, Garrus had become an even bigger gun nut than Shepard, and was more than happy to oblige them with not only a primary but several backup suppliers. "He's a little cagey," he answered, "But he'll show his face—and the stock—once he knows our creds are good."

"Fair enough," Shepard acknowledged. "What about rations?"

"Human food is easy enough," Kasumi said. Then she smirked, a small curving of her lips in the shadows of her crimson hood. "Dextro-DNA rations might be a bit of a challenge. Want me to snoop around and see if I can find Tali something nice?"

Shepard thought he should have seen this one coming, and fought the urge to bring his palm up to his face. Tali froze for an instant, thankful that her tinted visor obscured her expression. Jacob rolled his eyes.

"What am I, invisible?" Garrus interjected, good-naturedly faking a hurt look. Shepard couldn't tell if the raptor-like features of the turian face were scowling or grimacing. Of course, he also didn't understand how they spoke without lips, but he didn't let it bother him much. Kasumi, at any rate, seemed to appreciate the gesture, and her smirk turned into a generous grin.

"Don't overdo it, Kasumi," said Shepard. "Just make sure you get plenty for everyone." _Besides, _he thought, _I'm perfectly capable of buying nice things on my own._ He had chosen Watson as their resupply point for just that reason; there was a small but renowned novelty shop near the starport, which he had visited with Royal when he was seventeen. If it still sold the same combination of alcohol, food, and gifts, it would suit his purposes admirably.

Kasumi obligingly vanished into the crowd—adept at vanishing even without the use of her cloaking tech—thus leaving Shepard alone with only the stoic turian for company. The two of them made their way through Watson's port, allowing themselves to relax and take in the refreshing, comforting feeling of being cradled in the gravity of a planet. Garrus and Shepard, having served together on two different incarnations of the same ship, had had plenty of time to make friends and, though they often had disagreements about morality in justice, they agreed that being on solid ground put them at ease. For soldiers who spent so much time in space, it was a feeling akin to being home.

Of course, they could never truly relax with the Reapers on the march and Cerberus out for their blood. For this reason among others, Shepard and his companions always traveled fully armed and armored whenever they left the _Normandy_,regardless of where they were or their reason for going there. More than once, Shepard himself would have taken a sniper or ruffian's bullet if not for his kinetic barriers.

Not that they expected to be shot at on Watson. The colony had developed a healthy economy despite being significantly colder than Earth and having a diverse—and in many places dangerous—animal variety. The urban center that had sprung up around the spaceport was notably more civilized and cleaner than the typical colony. Shops had a pleasing variety of wares with moderately expensive advertising systems and fair prices. Police presence was at a minimum, as the booming free market had made poverty a rare phenomenon and, therefore, reduced the population's incentive to turn to crime. In addition, the Alliance naval base on the planet's moon discouraged most attacks by outsiders. The batarian attack on Franklin a few weeks ago, which Shepard had helped defeat, was a rarity.

They strolled along the boulevard from the spaceport and into the city proper. A few of the locals gave them curious looks, not used to seeing many soldiers in full combat armor, especially not a high-tech Kestrel prototype like the one Shepard wore. Garrus, Tali, and Samara stood out even more, as aliens had little reason to visit an out-of-the-way, Alliance-governed world like this one. No one disturbed them, however. If Shepard had any fans on this planet, they either kept to themselves or didn't recognize him.

Once in the town's cobblestone-paved main plaza, lined with shops and surrounded by tall, gleaming steel buildings, Shepard called a halt and gave a nod, indicating that it was safe to break formation and relax a little. "Let's do this quick and easy, just like we planned," he said. "Garrus, take Tali and Samara and head for the warehouse district to pick up our thunder. Jacob and I'll take a look around and see about some fuel and small-arms ammo."

"Giving me both the ladies, Shepard?" Garrus joked. "I know you've been getting all the attention, but there's really no need to pity me."

"I didn't know you were that sensitive about it. I could introduce you to a cousin of mine," Tali offered, making Shepard grin. The last time those two had had an exchange in a public place, Tali had been frustrated over the news that she'd just been charged with treason and reminded the turian that she had a shotgun when he'd pushed her. Garrus and Tali being two of his closest friends, Shepard was relieved to see them getting along again.

"Oh, I could never do such a thing," Garrus replied. "Unlike our fearless leader, I'd be just _mortified_ if I risked giving an innocent quarian a deadly infection." His eyes pierced Shepard with a smug look and Tali looked away with a small cough.

Shepard refused to be cowed. "Well, there's always alternatives. I bet if we asked her really nicely, we could have Samara introduce you to one of her daughters," he suggested.

"That is NOT funny," Samara said. A deep frown darkened her features. Her daughters—the two that were still alive—were _ardat-yakshi_, the bearers of a rare genetic mutation present only in pureblood asari. Because of this, they could never know the love of another sapient being, as their "melding" process by which normal asari reproduced would cause all their partners to die from brain hemorrhage.

Shepard mentally kicked himself, realizing that although she may have gotten over Morinth's death, Samara was still a Justicar and a very serious person. Shepard had been around, but he didn't always say the right thing where aliens were concerned. Suggesting to Tali that perhaps the quarians should abandon their homeworld when they were searching for her presumed-dead father had gotten him an angry retort in spite of her affection for him, and a conversation with Thane Krios over the Drell's relationship to the Hanar had made him feel like an idiot. Fortunately, these incidents of foot-in-mouth syndrome were becoming less and less common for him.

The others had their own similar reactions. Tali got the joke, but had to suppress her laugh for fear that Samara would become more offended and possibly throttle her. Garrus inhaled deeply and decided not to return Shepard's vocal jab right away, for the same reason. Jacob, meanwhile, did the intelligent thing, and set them all back on task. "Hate to spoil your fun, Commander, but shouldn't we get to work? We don't want to hang out here in the open all day."

_And that's just one more reason to keep him around,_ Shepard thought. "You're right. Let's get to it. Garrus, you're in charge. We'll meet you back at the _Normandy _in two hours on the tick."

"Yes, sir," Garrus acknowledged. "Don't worry. Tali's in good hands—at least until she's back in yours." He smirked.

"I don't see the difference, since I'm the one taking care of both of you bosh'tets most of the time," Tali said matter-of-factly.

"Just get going already," Shepard said. His tone was one of irritation, but he couldn't quite keep the grin off his face.

The two groups parted ways, Garrus's team heading south toward the warehouses while Shepard and Jacob pushed through the throng to the east, looking for the local armory with the aid of a downloaded city map on their omni-tools. It didn't take them long to locate—the building was less than two kilometers from the spaceport and easily within walking distance. It would take them less than an hour to get there, buy a few crates and rent a truck to haul it back to the ship. That would leave him with plenty of time to check the local newsstands and investigate that novelty store, and perhaps even have a drink before heading out.

Making their way downtown, Shepard was assaulted with the sights and sounds of the bustling city, much different from the place he'd visited in his youth and yet similar enough to trigger a vivid bout of nostalgia. He could see himself walking this very road all those years ago, wearing tough blue jeans, a dark green shirt and a sheepskin vest rather than the black-and-gold armor he favored now; the garb of a poor teenager. Back then it had been not Jacob Taylor but Marcus Royal at his wing—tall, a little lanky, and rough around the edges but laid-back and good-natured. The sniper had had an eye for entertainment as well as valuable enemy targets, and much of his officer's commission had been spent either in pubs, theater houses, and biotiball arenas, or else on cowboy-like shenanigans that had nearly gotten them killed or court-martialed but had been the most exhilarating experiences of Shepard's life.

_"Hey, Donny,"_ he remembered him saying suddenly, _"Y'see those two pretty things over there?" _

_"The two next to the tall, well-dressed gentleman who looks a lot like that picture of the mayor we saw on the vidscreen two minutes ago?"_

_ "They'd be the ones, yep."_

_ "I see them."_

_ Royal flashed him a wolfish grin. "Hundred credits says I can score by sundown. I'll even let you have one of 'em."_

Shepard grinned fondly at the memory. The incident had ended in a split decision. Royal had indeed "scored" in the allotted time, but largely thanks to Shepard's help. In addition, the Mayor had found out and retaliated as soon as they'd left the broom closet, and the ensuing high-speed chase had ended with the two of them barely escaping off-planet in the middle of the night, purchasing last-minuted shuttle rides to the Alliance base on the moon of Franklin and having to wait half a week before they could catch an interstellar flight back to Arcturus station.

It had been nearly three years since their last meeting on the Citadel, and almost that long since Shepard had thought of his old partner in crime. Yet he did so now, and with great curiosity. Royal had claimed to be leaving to investigate a possible weapon against the Reapers, leaving the Alliance military behind to do so. Had he been successful? With the Collectors destroyed and the Reaper fleet on its way, Shepard was both eager to be reunited with his old friend and hopeful that an effective weapon had been found.

"You okay, Commander?" Jacob asked suddenly, cutting his thoughts short. "You look like you aren't all there."

Shepard snapped back to the present and looked at his lieutenant, who was looking back at him with mute concern. "I'm fine, Jacob," he answered. "Just remembering the last time I was here. A friend of mine and I sort of tore up the place."

Jacob offered a quiet chuckle and said, "Guess that explains why the cops are giving you those funny looks."

"Or maybe it's your armor," Shepard countered. "Where'd you get that fancy setup, anyway?"

Indeed, Jacob had discarded his old Cerberus uniform in the wake of the _Normandy'_s separation from the organization and replaced it with heavier ablative armor. It was equally as impressive as Shepard's own suit, though he had forgone the visor in favor of a sophisticated ear-mounted biotic amp and the armor had a conduit running across the chest and limbs that thrummed with blue power. "Figured I'd take advantage of my Cerberus credit before the Man pulled my access," he said with a small smile.

Shepard was about to ask what the conduits were for, but put the question on hold when he realized they'd reached the armory. "Come on," he said. "Maybe we'll find you a fancy new gun to go with it."

Twelve figures stood shadowed in an alley near Watson's spaceport. Ten of them were wearing long cloaks that hid most of their features, but all of them appeared to be of human size and shape, and the shrouded facial features seemed to support that conclusion as well. However, the red irises glowing like hot cinders from beneath their hoods and the wires forming spiderweb patterns beneath the skin of their hands lent an entirely too sinister element to their appearance.

The remaining two figures wore their cloaks without hoods and, though the taller one was wearing a black helmet with a horizontal, red-tinted slit for a visor, each of them would look twice as unnerving as their subordinates to passers by. They wore armor painted the color of charcoal, the sweeping, spiked features of which did justice to mythological demon lords rather than soldiers. Their weapons were also customized and styled in much the same fashion. The tall male carried an enormous machine gun with a huge, scythe-like bayonet in one hand, a large barrier projector on the gauntlet opposite. The asari next to him, with dark spots adorning her sweeping scalp, had two wicked-looking submachine guns strapped to her hips. She had the same sub-dermal wiring and crimson irises that her followers bore.

It was this asari that spoke first, as her omni-tool beeped and displayed a mini-map of the district and two dots moving into a store on the north side. "He is nearby."

"Yes," the male agreed curtly. He neither removed his helmet nor turned his head to look at her. He did not even move, but simply kept his monstrous weapon trained down the alleyway.

"You plan to wait before killing him?"

"I don't plan on killing him yet."

The asari narrowed her brows, her voice effecting both surprise and disdain. "That is counter to the Illusive Man's orders. You were told to kill him and replace him."

Now the male turned his head, snapping in irritation. "I know my damned orders. I'm going to obey them. Eventually."

"Eventually?" The asari's face grew darker still.

"He still has some use left in him, Morwyn. I want to use him to find the other facility."

"You mean the one on Mindoir?" Morwyn asked. "Can't you find it yourself? You do have his memories, and you didn't have any trouble finding the data cache on Elysium."

The man shook his head. "We found the computer on Elysium because Cerberus intercepted Royal's message. The memory chip had little to do with that, and it's still not complete enough to give us an exact location of the next puzzle piece."

"So you want him to find it for you," Morwyn finished.

"Yes."

"How do you plan on doing so without tipping him off about our involvement?"

The second figure let an ominous silence hang between them for a long moment, shifting his gaze from her and back down the alley. Morwyn hated it when he did that. It was a waste of time intended to inspire fear that she no longer felt. It only caused her annoyance. Then he flicked the safety off on his machine gun, which caused her even greater annoyance. "I don't."

"You're not actually going to..." Morwyn started, but her partner was already striding forward and motioning his hooded zealots along with him. She heaved a sigh.

"Imbecile."

Having succeeded in obtaining not only ammunition, Jacob's new gun, and a truck, but also a crew to drive the truck and haul the gear for them, Shepard and Jacob found themselves back in the port district twenty minutes early, and had headed straight for the store called _Gruber Spence's RareWare._ Just as he had hoped, Shepard had found the novelty shop just as eccentrically decorated and even better stocked than before. As soon as they entered, they were surrounded by blinking lights, machine-generated mist, blaring techno music, and a professional sales staff in slacks and black tee-shirts with the store's bloodred logo emblazoned on the front.

"Help you find something, sir?" one of them offered, seeming a bit unnerved at the sight of two heavily-armed gentlemen in his store but doing his best to maintain a polite and helpful manner.

"Thanks, but we're okay for now," Shepard answered.

"This place doesn't seem like your average gift shop," Jacob commented, staring at a rack of pillows shaped in various human and alien forms, all of which were naked or minimally clad. He cracked a smile as he caught sight of a life-sized krogan in garishly-colored boxers.

"'Three floors of decadent delights,' as a friend of mine put it," Shepard told him. "Feel like having a look around?"

"I'll just keep an eye on the door for now," Jacob said. "One of us has to stay focused."

"Getting a bad feeling, Jacob?" Shepard asked. "EDI and Miranda both checked the planet's network, and anyone who wanted to ambush us already missed their best chance when we were downtown, away from the spaceport security."

Jacob gave him a serious look, the kind that pierced right into a person's heart. It signaled that he was having _that_ kind of feeling, the kind that seized your insides and made your head ring with warning bells. Whatever it was, it was more than simple jumpiness. "You don't know Cerberus like I do. They had people _everywhere,_ Shepard, and the Illusive Man doesn't just let people go. I can't shake the feeling that we're being hunted."

"Why didn't you talk about it before?"

Jacob shrugged, but his tension didn't go away. "I suspected he'd sent somebody after us since we blew the Collector base, but... It's hard to say how I know, but it just feels like it's _here_, like something at the very edge of your eyes. You can't look directly at it, but you catch a flicker of movement, hear twigs snapping."

The wheels turned in Shepard's mind. Everything they'd seen so far, and all the investigation they'd done before landing told him it was safe. But he'd learned long ago not to doubt Jacob Taylor's instincts, so he had to give his comrade's words some consideration. He gave a slow nod. "I hear you," he said. "I'll finish up here quick as I can, then we'll go straight back to the ship. I'll trust you to watch my back."

"Will do, Commander," Jacob said, comforted at having his suspicions heard out. "Who knows? Maybe I'm just paranoid."

Shepard left him where he was, trying to focus on his objective: finding a birthday gift for Tali. Unfortunately, the more he tried to concentrate, the more Jacob's warning grew on him. He found himself checking over his shoulder and around corners every few steps, and re-checking the seals on his pads more than once. He forced it onto the back burner of his thoughts, however; the faster he found what he was looking for, the sooner they could leave.

He passed several sections on the first floor, each one containing a different kind of merchandise. From "Discount Seizures," filled with all manner of disco balls, strobe lights, and other unconventional modes of illumination, to "Cheap Thrills," populated with a wild assortment of erotic playthings for nearly every known species, he roamed through them all, browsing quickly and thoroughly, before giving up and heading to the next floor. This one was organized in much the same fashion, except that "discount" and "cheap" wares were instead "luxurious" and "quality" merchandise. When nothing there tickled his fancy, Shepard ascended to the third floor.

This level of the shop was all one section, designated as "One-Time Wonders—Unique Marvels Found No Place Else!" In this place it became more obvious that the proprietor had prospered over the years. In addition to the armed guards that stood in every corner, the floor was a veritable treasure trove, filled with items that might have been better off in a museum or a national archive. Shepard recognized a Prothean memory sphere much like the one he'd found on Elatania during his hunt for Saren, and the one that now sat in his quarters on the _Normandy._ He also saw several data discs, both of Prothean origin and those that he didn't recognize from any known species. Masterfully done paintings, sculptures, and other works of art from all corners of the galaxy occupied the entire north wall. Another housed several glass cases with animal specimens Shepard had never seen before, many labeled as having come from Watson's famously diverse ecosystem but also several species from other worlds. Shepard found himself momentarily awestruck.

"Ah, I thought we'd see you here again," came a voice to his left. Turning, he saw a gray-haired man wearing a burgundy robe, sitting in an antique armchair and smoking from an elegant pipe. Behind him, a fire blazed in an old-fashioned, wood-burning brick fireplace rather than a modern synthflame substitute. For a moment Shepard was reminded of the Illusive Man, a notion he quickly threw out when he realized who he was looking at.

"If it isn't Gruber himself," he said, forgetting about Tali and Jacob for a moment and walking over. "Still hanging in there, old-timer?"

"I could ask the same of you," Gruber answered. He rose from his chair and offered his withered hand, which Shepard shook firmly. "The news reports all said you were dead. Yet here you are—young Donny Shepard, the people's savior."

"Guilty as charged," Shepard said. He released Gruber's arm, smiling.

"So, where's that deadbeat friend of yours... Royal?"

"We parted ways a long time ago," Shepard explained. "We haven't seen much of each other since before I enlisted."

"So I heard," Gruber said. "He gave me the same story when he was here two months ago."

Shepard's eyes widened behind his visor. "Marcus was here?" he blurted.

The old man chuckled. "Been that long, has it?" he said.

Shepard shook off his surprise and approached the subject more calmly. "Not that long... I'm just surprised that he was here." _And glad he's alive, _he thought privately. "Do you know where he went?"

"Slow down, boy," Gruber said, frowning. "Stay a while, won't you? It's been a long time, and I'm willing to bet you've got plenty to talk about."

Shepard thought about Jacob, waiting nervously downstairs, and the threat he'd been so convinced about. If there was some kind of unseen danger, he didn't want himself or his crew exposed to it overlong. His desire to learn Royal's fate, however, overpowered his caution, especially given that this might well have been his only opportunity. "All right," he said. "I guess I've got a little time. What did you want to talk about?"

Gruber's frown faded and he led Shepard into the center of the museum-like room. "Well, to start, I was going to brag about my little collection of masterpieces, here. Rather magnificent, isn't it?" He laughed. "But I can see you're in a hurry, so I'll be brief. The last time you were here, you and mister Royal helped me out on a very important business venture. Do you remember that?"

Memories stirred in Shepard's mind yet again. He vividly recalled thick reeds, sticky mud, and a damnable opaque mist; a swamp, on an island far to the south of the capital. "We helped escort one of your shipments from a pachyosaur reserve," he said.

"Nastiest place you ever did see!" Gruber exclaimed, grinning fiercely at the recollection. "The damned beasts gored half my men before you two dropped in. But you saved the ivory _and_ my hide, and so I owe you two a favor. Or did, anyway... Royal's already collected his share. Which just leaves you."

"I remember," Shepard said. "But like I said then, I don't need payment for that. We were just happy to help."

"No," Gruber said. "I insist! A man like myself doesn't let debts go unpaid. There must be something I can do for you, some trinket that might be useful. Just take a look around!" The old man's beady glare silenced all further protest from Shepard. He was hard to refuse.

"All right," Shepard said. "But only if you tell me where Marcus went. I want to talk to him."

"I doubt you'll be able to talk to him," Gruber said, "He came through like he was fleeing the reaper himself. Wouldn't say much, but I could see right through him. That boy's gotten himself into trouble something fierce. Not that I don't doubt he can handle himself..."

"Then it's even more important that I figure out where he's gone," Shepard insisted.

"Right," Gruber agreed soberly. "Mind you, this information might be out of date, and it's not that specific, but he said he was headed someplace pretty far out of the way. A barely-explored backwater cluster called Siren."

Shepard made a mental note, then turned toward the far wall, lined with shelves of seemingly random artifacts and oddities. He walked along it slowly, quietly, passing over each item twice before moving on to the next. Something had caught his eye when he'd first entered the room, but now he was having trouble finding it again. His mind strained to remember what it look like.

Back on the carpet in the middle of the room, old Gruber fidgeted nervously. "You're actually going to go after him, aren't you?"

"Marcus and I have old business to discuss," Shepard answered, not taking his eyes off the shelves.

"Even though he's probably walking into hell? I could see it in the way he held himself, like a man condemned. Siren isn't supposed to be a very safe place, either."

This time Shepard turned his head and offered the old codger a reassuring smile. "I've had my share of hell, too," he said, "And Marcus is as tough as I am. We'll be saving your hide again someday soon."

He turned back to the shelves again, and suddenly spotted what he had been looking for: a baseball-sized glass sphere containing what looked like a model planet, except that the planet was revolving slowly and seemed to have realistic weather patterns flowing across it in slow motion. It was remarkably earth-like, with deep, blue oceans and several yellow-green continents. Those continents were dotted with cities, but those cities were separated by rolling fields and fertile forests. A civilized gaia, pure and lovely. He picked it up and weighed it in his palm—it radiated with a soft warmth.

Gruber gave a defeated sigh, then smiled. "Well, then... I guess there's no stopping you. Royal left you something while he was here. I'll get it for you, then you can be on your way."

Shepard turned to him, and nodded. "Thanks. I'll try to be back more often. Maybe give your business an endorsement."

Chuckling, the old man shook his head and disappeared behind a door opposite the stairs, leaving Shepard alone with the security and the miniature world in his palm. Somehow he felt drawn to the planet, as though he'd seen it or heard it described somewhere before, but he couldn't place it anywhere in his memory. Ilos was close, but that planet had been dead—this one was very much alive. He was still racking his brains when Gruber returned.

"Here you are," his host said, handing him a steel box about half again the size of the model. "Royal left explicit instructions not to open it until you were somewhere secure, so I imagine it's quite private, or valuable... or both."

Shepard tucked the package under his arm with a grateful nod, then held out the orb with the model planet spinning inside. "I think I know this planet," he said, "But I can't be sure. Where did you get it?"

"Ah," Gruber intoned, peering at it closely. "That is quite the find you have there. I purchased it from a mercenary team who, eh... 'liberated' it from batarian pirates. I didn't know what it was, either, until I had it appraised—took quite the long time, too. That's Rannoch, the lost quarian homeworld."

So _that_ was why it stood out to him. Shepard had heard of Rannoch before, though most quarians simply called it "the homeworld." Tali had described it to him on occasion when they foung time to be alone together. Legion, the geth platform that had been sent to study and liaison between its people and organics, had offered still more, and with the added benefit of being able to talk about the state of the planet today. It was much as the quarians had left it, the geth having served as guardians and caretakers in their creators' absence. The grasses and trees were still green, the buildings that hadn't been destroyed had been maintained, and the graves of the quarians slain in the geth's uprising were well-kept. If Shepard's intuition was correct and the geth could be bargained with, Tali's people would find resettling their world to be smooth and easy.

All this aside, however, the model was an excellent find. Shepard allowed himself a wide smile as he turned it over in his palm, noting that the planet stayed upright regardless of how he turned the glass container. If this didn't light up Tali's face, he didn't know what would. He lowered it and sealed it into a pouch on his hip.

"How much do you want for it?" he asked.

"Considering the quality of the craftsmanship and the pristine condition it's in," Gruber said, turning back toward his chair by the fire, "I could charge you a small fortune. But I owe you a favor, so you're going to walk out with it not one credit poorer. You're welcome, lucky bastard." He ensconced himself in his seat, smiling contentedly in spite of everything. "Now get out of here. You have a crew and an adventure waiting for you, yes?"

A minute later, Shepard had collected Jacob and the two of them strode out of the shop, making their way back toward the port. Jacob was still tense, but seemed to have loosened up a bit now that they were about to be back behind the _Normandy'_s reinforced hull. Garrus's team was scheduled to rendezvous with them in less than half an hour and a quick radio call confirmed that they were on time and unmolested. If everything continued to go smoothly, the ship would break orbit and the danger would pass very quickly.

Still, the gritty career soldier was constantly fingering the stock of his new Apocalypse-class shotgun and flitting his eyes in all directions. Even Shepard had to admit that he felt something wasn't right with the place. People seemed to be looking their way a lot more than they had when they had first disembarked, and many pointed fingers or whispered behind their hands as they passed. He had to wonder if the locals had connected him or one of his squad with something—or someone—unsavory.

"Hang on a moment," he said, holding his hand up as they passed into the port's main terminal. "I just want to check something." He strode purposefully towards the nearest news terminal and thumbed his omni-tool, patching the signal into their squad radio channel.

A human-sounding female voice, likely one of the local newscasters, came into his left ear in mid-sentence. "...continue to surface regarding the unknown terrorist group that attacked Elysium three days ago, but none of these rumors have been confirmed. Councilor Anderson and Chairman Winston of the Systems Alliance Parliament refused to comment further on the identity of the attackers, but the Citadel Council, in a surprising turn, has assured human representatives that the problem is being..."

"Commander, look up there!" Jacob exclaimed. He pointed at a vid-screen hanging overhead, which was playing video feed from the same story they were listening to. Shepard's eyes darted upward.

What he saw blew him away. The camera had frozen on a scene of carnage and disarray, and though the video was shot from a distance, and the figure it was centered on was riddled with wires and wore a kind of armor that looked like something out of a medieval Black Knight story, the face bore an uncanny resemblance to Shepard's own.

Suddenly, he knew why everyone had been staring at him.

"This is Shepard," he said over the radio. "Everyone get your asses back to the ship, _now!_"

"A little late for that," Shepard heard his own voice say from behind him.

From somewhere outside his suddenly adrenaline-spiked brain he faintly heard Jacob shouting a warning. Then he heard a howl like a thousand banshees in torment, and all hell broke loose.

MESSDECK OF SSV _BULL RUN,_ IN ORBIT OVER ELYSIUM

Private Sarah Williams knew that what she was about to do was unauthorized, and possibly dangerous. She also knew that she was probably on a wild goose chase and that there'd be nothing for her to find out. But risky or not, she knew she had to do it, because short of confronting Commander Alenko—who'd been deliberately avoiding her since they'd boarded—directly, talking to Monarch was the only way she'd find out anything new about this guy called Shepard.

Both Monarch and Shepard were Spectres, which meant Monarch had access to all of the Council's files on his peer. That included detailed combat statistics, personality assessments, classified mission records, and all sorts of other data that the rank-and-file would never lay eyes on... and because this mission had a good chance of leading the _Bull Run_ and its crew directly to Shepard, Monarch had almost certainly become very familiar with those files recently. Sarah wanted to know what he knew—or at least as much as he would tell her.

Taking a deep breath, she rapped three times on the door to the port stateroom, normally reserved for the Executive Officer but temporarily lent out to the Spectre. When no answer came after fifteen seconds, she tried again. After again receiving no results, she wondered if she should try opening the door. Doing so without permission could have been costly. Everyone on the ship was under a microscope and on a short leash, as Chief Thompson had loudly elaborated at their initial muster. They were threatened to be put on report for so much as saying "hello" to the Spectre without authorization.

She closed her eyes, remembering all the time she'd spent waiting, all the letters she'd written, all the bureaucratic bullshit she'd put up with to find out what had really happened to her oldest sister, and how none of it had amounted to anything. If Commander Alenko wasn't going to talk, then finding Shepard was the only way to know the truth—and, if necessary, to grant peace to Ashley's ghost. To do that, she needed Monarch.

_Well,_ she thought, _here I go._ Fighting to keep her hands from shaking, sweat beading up on her brow, she keyed the door panel. It slid open, and she strode inside before fear could change her mind for her. The door slid shut behind her.

Monarch sat cross-legged on the deck, still wearing his high-tech combat suit and visorless helmet. His rifle was laid out before him, disassembled, and he was in the process of inspecting and cleaning each individual component. He looked up when he heard the door cycling, but didn't say anything. For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other, completely silent.

_Say something, you jackass, _her mind screamed at her. She fumbled for words, any words, that would break the silence without causing him to eject her from his quarters, or worse—contact her Chief. "Uhm... Hey." _Idiot! At least address him as an officer! _"I mean, good evening... sir!"

"Good evening, Private Williams," Monarch replied. "Thought I'd be seein' you before long."

Sarah found herself taken aback. He'd been expecting her? "Sir?"

"Have a seat anywhere," the Spectre continued. "I'll be just a moment. Gotta finish puttin' her back together and then we'll have ourselves a chat."

While Sarah simply stood there at attention, almost too surprised to breathe, much less find a place to sit, he turned back to his weapon, expertly reassembling it as if he'd been born with it strapped to his back. Within forty seconds, the dozen-and-a-half individual pieces recombined into a deadly whole. The rifle was long-barreled and had an elaborate scope, and despite numerous dents and scratches was in excellent working order. He held it up, giving it a loving caress.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" he said proudly. "Widow Anti-Material Rifle, made to punch through tank armor. Normally they aren't carried and fired by a single operator—recoil's enough to break a man's arm. I'm one of the few who can handle her alone." He touched a button behind the safety and the gun collapsed in on itself until it was half its normal length, and then he stood and latched it neatly onto his back next to the decorated blue-white cloth strung from his shoulder.

Though Sarah couldn't see his eyes under the faceplate, she knew from the way his head inclined that he was looking her over. Suddenly she felt very naked and exposed, despite the fact that she was fully uniformed. She still did not dare to move.

"Loosen up," Monarch told her. "You look like you got a ramrod stuck up your pucker. I ain't goin' to bite, you know... especially considering that my teeth are covered."

Letting out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, Sarah forced herself to stand at ease. "Sorry, sir," she managed to say. "I'm just... well, I'm surprised you were waiting for me."

"Ain't no reason to be sorry," he told her, motioning toward a table with a lamp and an armchair. "Now, you gonna have a seat or not?"

Not willing to risk offending the man by refusing his hospitality, Sarah made her way shakily over to the chair and sat down, folding her arms in her lap. Monarch gave a satisfied nod and proceeded to plop down at the foot of the bed, which creaked loudly and visibly sagged under the weight of his suit. "Aw, shit," he swore. "Hope they don't make me pay for that."

Despite her overwhelming nervousness, Sarah laughed a little, which seemed to please the Spectre. "Now, that's more like it," he said. "No use trying to talk sense to a person who's scared half to death. So, Miss Williams... I'm guessing you've come about our mutual friend, Commander Shepard?"

"You knew?" Sarah asked, though this time she wasn't nearly as surprised. If he knew she was coming, it made sense that he knew why she'd come.

"I got files on the whole crew before heading out," he explained. "Yours in particular stood out. At first I wondered where they got off sending you on the mission to hunt down your sister's old captain. It wasn't too hard to figure out, though."

"What do you mean, sir?" Sarah asked. She'd wondered about it too, of course. Realistically, it didn't make sense to send someone with a personal stake on a mission like this; emotional involvement led to irrational behavior, jeopardizing both the mission and the crew.

"I mean that they want to find Shepard bad enough that they were willing to risk all our lives to infighting on the off-chance that it'd give us an edge. Hell, if that weren't it, they wouldn't have put that boy Alenko on the job, either."

He stood up and walked over to a nearby shelf, grabbing a small vid-disc from behind a stack of books. Half-heartedly, he tossed it over to Sarah, who barely caught it before it hit the deck. "What's this?" she asked.

"Shepard's files," he said. "All of them, from the day he became a Spectre to the destruction of SR-1. Battle records, crew counseling sessions... hell, even his private log's in there, albeit code-locked."

"You're just... _giving _it to me?" Sarah asked, unbelieving.

"If I'm right, you're gonna need 'em," Monarch said. "If there's one thing you need to know most of all about Shepard, it's that just about everything he touches lights up like the fourth of july. So study up, Private, and maybe you'll get what you're looking for."

A loud beeping sounded on his omni-tool, and he chuckled to himself. "Well, well," he said. "I think this just might be lesson one right now. Take a gander." He keyed the tool, and the two of them were rewarded with a high-definition view of a human-colonized planet in the Skepsis system.

"What's that?" Sarah asked, staring curiously.

"Live feed from a Council spy drone," Monarch answered. "STG planted a dozen of 'em on every human colony on record just a couple of days ago. Remember that 'terrorist' attack we were talkin' about? They _really_ wanted to find those boys again."

As they watched, a battle unfolded in the middle of the colony's primary spaceport. The "terrorist" force was small—only a handful or two—but in that confined space they were nightmarishly effective. Just like on the footage Sarah had watched Monarch play before, the populace was being slaughtered by biotic and brutal bodily assault as well as gunfire. This time, however, the enemies weren't trying to force their way towards a specific location. Instead, they swarmed around two individuals, fighting back to back to hold them off. One of them was a dark-skinned, shotgun-wielding soldier. The other one...

"It's him!" Sarah exclaimed. "Only they're attacking him instead of following him. What does that mean?"

"Just watch, girl," Monarch insisted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "See that one, there? The guy with the freaky armor and the cape?"

As Sarah looked on, the individual in question removed his helmet.

"No way... Two of them?"

"'Fraid so," Monarch said.

Cut off from the ship and surrounded by hooded, quick-moving and well-armed devils, Shepard and Jacob were fighting with everything they had just to stay alive. All around them, civilians and security personnel who got too close were being butchered, but so long as the abominations kept the pressure on them, there was nothing they could do. Both men were forced to stay behind the relative safety of their biotic barriers, blasting away with shotguns and hoping to score a lucky hit—the bastards were too fast to be caught by pistols or Shepard's Mattock heavy rifle. Even then, they were in a poor position.

"Shockwave, look out!" Jacob bellowed, as one of the creatures unleashed a string of biotic explosions in a straight line towards them. They executed quick shoulder-rolls to opposite sides. Jacob took advantage of the enemy's need to briefly stop to use his biotics and unleashed a biotic attack of his own, jerking an arm upward and lifting the exposed creature into the air. Shepard followed up on Jacob's move by catching the little devil in the belly with a well-aimed shotgun blast. It howled in agony as it was shredded, then caught fire as the incendiary rounds did their job.

There were still nine more left, however, and the shockwave had forced them apart. Two of the creatures broke off from their formations and came at each soldier head-on. Without time to reload his shotgun or sidestep his opponent, Shepard crouched, gathered dark energy around him, and leaped forward in a biotic charge. The mass effect field exploded on impact, sending the unfortunate creature hurtling through the air and straight through the plaster of the nearest wall, never to be seen again. Then he reloaded his shotgun and turned just in time to react to a second creature that had pounced on him from behind. He couldn't shoot quickly enough, so he smashed the ugly thing in the face, knocking it to the floor where he easily blew its head off.

Looking over, he saw Jacob struggling to grapple with one of the creatures, and rushed over to help. He found that no assistance was necessary, however; Jacob employed the creative use of a mass effect field to lighten his opponent, heave it over his head, then _raise_ the creature's mass and slam it back down behind him, shattering its skeleton. Moments later, he was back on his feet, and back-to-back with Shepard once more as each man re-established his barrier. Now there were only five left.

At this point, however, their leader called them off, stepping forward to meet them personally. He had removed his helmet at some point, and though his face was visible for the first time, Shepard already knew from looking at the news vid that he was seeing his Reaper-repurposed doppelganger.

"You live up to your reputation, my brother," he said, his voice an eerie parody of Shepard's own, layered with a metallic undertone. "It's a pity you left Cerberus behind. You could have had more power than you ever fathomed possible."

"What does Cerberus have to do with this?" Shepard demanded, keeping his shotgun trained on the imposter.

"Anderson hasn't told you?" the double mused, crimson eyes aglow with cunning. "Shame they didn't see fit to keep you in the loop. But it doesn't matter now. The Illusive Man managed to recover some fragments of the tech you destroyed in the galactic core. We—my crew and I—are the result of the studies conducted on that salvage."

The abominations—which Shepard now saw were more repurposed humans—were still present, circling him and Jacob slowly and advancing step-by step to form a loose ring around them. Their malevolent eyes bored into their prey keenly, knowing they had it cornered and itching for the order to pounce. Whether their leader was stalling for backup or trying to get something else out of Shepard, it was impossible to tell.

"So you're a puppet," Jacob concluded. "The Illusive Man's new toy."

The fake Shepard frowned. It seemed the assessment struck a nerve. "Maybe," he said. "But that shouldn't make any difference to you. You have much bigger problems ahead of you."

"You're damned right I do," Shepard said. "So get out of my way and let me get back to work. The Illusive Man knows better than anyone that I can stop the Reapers."

The doppelganger's expression changed to one of wicked amusement. "Of course he does. But he's also far-sighted enough to know that he'll be next on your list if you survive. So he'd rather see another Shepard in your place—one with proper priorities."

"Over my rotting corpse he will," Shepard returned. He chambered another heat clip as the abominations began to draw nearer at a faster pace.

"That's the idea," the Doppelganger replied. Then his minions converged rapidly as one body, and he charged Shepard biotically.

The wind rushed out of Shepard's lungs as he was thrown off his feet, then again as he smashed into a marble column. His biotic barrier saved his life, but he felt two of his ribs fracture in the impact. He slid to the floor, gasping for breath, and raised his head just in time to see the enemy coming again. He braced his feet against the column and raised his arms to absorb the second charge, avoiding being pancaked by half a heartbeat. Then he retaliated by heaving his opponent away with a biotic throw. The Doppelganger skidded away, but remained on his feet. Shepard got to his feet and scrambled around the column just as the enemy drew an enormous machine gun and began firing. He was more winded and bruised than he'd been since the Collector mission, and possibly before that—he'd never fought _himself_ before.

He wondered only briefly if Jacob was faring any better, but put that thought aside. Though his friend had been charged by five of those monstrosities, there was no way for Shepard to lend support without going through the leader first. So he pumped his chest with a shot of Medi-gel to help heal his ribs, swapped his shotgun for his rifle, and leaned out of cover to start a counter-attack.

His ill-tempered stunt-double wasn't quite as fast as his henchmen—probably because of the heavy armor he wore—so Shepard was able to score several hits on him before he dove for cover of his own, holing up around a nearby corner. Unfortunately, the shots deflected harmlessly of the armor's kinetic shields. It would take some wearing down before Shepard could penetrate to the armor itself, and eventually the flesh beneath.

_ May as well get started now, then,_ he figured. He ducked back behind the column to avoid return fire while he replaced the thermal clip on his rifle, then leaned out of the opposite side and lashed out with his mind. A rippling field of rapidly-oscillating mass effects tore into the Doppelganger's shields like a large-bore drill, depleting a large fraction of them. A few more shots from his rifle nearly drained them. So far, despite having been taken off guard at the starting gate, Shepard was winning the firefight.

When he leaned out again on the same side, however, the enemy was waiting for him. A warp field of his own ripped into Shepard's kinetic barrier and overloaded it, forcing him back into his cover. _Damn, _he thought. _He's good._ _Better equipped, too._ Indeed, the machine gun was a few more bursts away from bisecting the column he hid behind. He needed a new strategy, quickly.

Fortunately, he found another option almost immediately. Sprinting out from behind the column, he armed and lobbed a flashbang grenade while he ran for a new position behind a shipping crate, closer to his opponent. The Doppelganger's fire chased him until the flashbang went off, then petered out as he slid into his new position. He fired while the enemy was still dazed, dropping the remaining portion of his shields and beginning to eat into his armor. His opponent stumbled away half-blind, eventually retreating far enough that Shepard's rifle fire could no longer hit him.

But now Shepard had the advantage and he refused to give it up. Gathering his biotic power again, he released it and blasted through both his cover and his opponent's to crash into the Dopperlganger from clear across the terminal. The results were gratifying; the enemy was pinned between Shepard and the wall, the left side of his armor cracked, and a heavy pouch fell off his belt to the floor. A heavy groan escaped his lips as agony shot through his left arm and collarbone.

He was far from beaten, however. With a grunt he heaved his machine gun in an upward jab, extending the bayonet as he did so. Shepard reacted quickly enough to avoid being impaled, but the blade bit through the armor on his left side, leaving a bloody gash in his abdomen. The two broke away from each other, rolling backwards and coming up with guns raised. For a moment, neither of them fired. But from short-range, with no shields, the machine gun had an advantage. Unless Shepard scored a headshot on his next trigger pull, he was finished. The moment stretched into an eternity as both soldiers took aim.

Then a sniper round embedded itself in the Doppelganger's left shoulder, followed bya bolt of plasma that shredded his armor and then a biotic wave that lifted him off the ground and sent him skidding across the terminal. Shepard backed away on the balls of his feet, keeping his rifle aimed down the field, but only defensively. The cavalry had arrived, and it was perfectly okay to take his time.

"How's Jacob?" he asked, spitting blood onto the floor.

"I'm here, Commander!" the soldier affirmed, stepping up beside him with shotgun at the ready.

"Shepard!" Tali exclaimed, looking him over, and particularly at the bruises on his face and the gash in his side. "Keelah, what happened to you?"

"Forget it!" Shepard ordered. "We need to clear this area!"

"That should be easy," Samara commented. "There is only one opponent left, and he is fleeing."

The asari was right. Shepard's disgruntled twin had, despite grave injuries, clambered to his feet and loped down the terminal and out of sight, dragging his gun behind him. A look over Shepard's shoulder confirmed that the ghastly repurposed humans were all dead. _Good,_ he thought. At least the massacre was likely to have been contained to this terminal. He lowered his weapon and coughed up some more blood.

Garrus moved up to the front rank. "Should we follow him? He shouldn't be hard to bring down."

"No," Shepard said, trying not to slur his speech. He'd sustained more damage than he'd initially thought. His broken ribs were making it hard to breathe and blood was streaming down his side. His hardsuit was pumping him full of Medi-gel in an effort to shut his body down, forcing him into inactivity to prevent further damage and accelerating the healing process at the same time. "Don't risk it. Could be others waiting in ambush."

A worried look came onto the turian's face and he lowered his rifle, trying to meet his gaze. "Hey, Shepard... are you going to be all right? You look like hell."

Shepard barely heard him. "Get the bag he dropped. Over there by the cargo entrance. Then get back to the ship." His rifle fell from his grasp. His body soon followed.

"Shepard!" Tali rushed forward and caught him before he hid the ground. He felt familiar, enviro-suited arms embracing him and relaxed. "He needs help."

"He'll live," Jacob said. "The Medi-gel's working. But he's not going to be combat-ready for a few hours, that's for sure."

"I'm taking charge," Garrus said. "Samara, get that satchel. Jacob, get the Commander under the arms. Tali, you take his legs. We don't know if there are more of those things out here, but we're not sticking around to find out. Move it!"

Satisfied that his squad had everything well in hand and high as a kite on Medi-gel, Shepard was blissfully content as consciousness slipped away from him. Plummeting through layer after layer of sleep, he soon found himself in a darkness so deep and enveloping that he thought he might never see light again, not even in a dream.

But just as they always did in times like these, when the storm was upon him and tensions were high, the dreams found him anyway...


End file.
